


Cornered

by Emmeri



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Few Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Manipulative!Graves, Unhealthy Relationships, Vulnerable!Credence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmeri/pseuds/Emmeri
Summary: "It doesn't always have to hurt, Credence. If she was wrong about this, maybe she was wrong about other things too."Graves uses whatever means necessary to ensure Credence is on his side.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I would very much consider what happens here to be non-con due to Credence's state of mind. That said, it fell more to the "dubious consent" for the very same reason. Nothing is terribly explicit, but some may find it jarring.  
> (Can someone just wrap Credence up in blankets and give him the love he deserves?? His character killed me)

“Did she hurt you again?” His voice was as quiet as always, and Credence shook his head as always. 

“Let me see. Let me see your hand,” fingers had already wrapped around his wrist, but they were comforting - non-restraining. 

“It wasn’t there,” he found himself blurting out, ducking his head in an instant and jerking away. 

“Credence. _Credence_ ,” his name was never framed with anything but hate or pity unless it was Graves talking to him, so he let his feet halt his escape. 

“Where? Let me see it.”

“It’s ugly. _I’m_ ugly,” he amended, hands curling loosely at his side and head hanging low. 

“No. You’re not. You’re _not_ ugly. I can help you, you know that,” Graves was saying, was placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to guide his body until they were standing face-to-face. The streetlamp was dim and cast more shadows than light, especially tucked away in the alley as they were. 

Credence still refused to meet his eyes, took fascination in how much shinier Graves' shoes were than his own. 

Without asking, Graves waved his wand lightly over his body, bringing with it a light sheen of heat. He started with the front side, delicately inspecting every inch, and paused when he reached his back. 

Credence clamped his eyes shut, held his breath, waited for something - anything to happen. 

To his surprise, Graves simply asked, “May I?”

He knew he could take the pain away, take the scars away, just as he much as he understood they could never truly leave. Still, he dipped his head in permission when Graves rested light fingers on his chin. 

Shrugging out of his clothes was somehow even more humiliating than when he’d done it not a day ago, on his knees and waiting to be struck with is own belt; he thought it had something to do with the intensity that Graves watched him, as though waiting to spot something that would change his mind. 

(It wouldn’t take much; he’d see the mess of flesh on his back and go running.)

Bare from the waist up, clothes folded neatly in a pile at his feet, Credence covered his torso self-consciously and stared with a new-found determination at his shoes. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered before the man had even the chance to move. He wasn’t sure what he was sorry for, only that he was. 

“Don’t be,” a careless murmur, a set of fingers trailing along his collarbone, shoulder, resting on the nape of his neck as Graves moved around him. 

There was no reaction, no strangled gasp, no spewed filth, no panicked footsteps. Only the same, gentle heat and a slight whisper of incantations. 

Credence shuddered despite himself; the heat turned into a burning and it hurt as it always did for the severe injuries to feel his blood pump anew, his muscles sprout and twist together, his flesh grows and fuse into a smooth complexion. 

It was only when the process was done that he realized he hadn’t breathed once since it started. 

“Credence,” breathed out against his back, the warmth of the exhale lingering on his skin, fading only to be replaced with something soft. 

He wrenched away with a startled noise, shoulder roughly scraping the brick behind him. 

“What are you doing?” He wanted to demand, but pleaded instead. 

“It doesn’t have to hurt, Credence. It doesn’t always have to hurt,” Graves assured him, hand held out in a reach that would never be completed without his permission, Credence realized. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he settled on, because he didn’t. 

“I’ll show you,” sighed against his neck, followed by a gentle set of lips trailing kisses up to his ear. 

“S-stop!” He panted, writhing against the wall he’d backed himself into, mind racing. 

“Why?” Down to his collarbone where teeth gnawed lightly. 

“My mother - she says that this is just as wrong as witchcraft!” He managed, trying to weakly shove him away, but he couldn't - couldn't even truly try to. 

Starved of human contact, drowned in deserved beatings, it was no wonder it felt good. That was the only reason. It was wrong, he reminded himself, repeated over and over as a hand gripped his hip. 

“How can something this pure be wrong?” Graves questioned, his tongue joining his lips. 

“Stop it, stop it!” The second word cracked and suddenly he realized he was crying, sobbing without any control to prevent it. 

“It’s alright, Credence. Let me do this for you,” grunted against his earlobe, the fingers slipping into his waistband. 

“I - I don’t - “ he was cut off when the kisses found his own lips, and he went limp. Found himself kissing back before he understood what he was doing, still didn’t understand what was going on. 

The sound of his sobs was interrupted only by the quiet moans, the slurping of tongue against tongue, until hands went to undo his buckle. 

“Wait, wait, I’ll be good! Please not that; please not you too! Please, anything but - “ He begged, eyes snapping open and vision blurry from the tears, voice crackling like an untuned radio. 

“Shh, Credence, I’m not going to hurt you with it. I would never. You know I would never,” he waited until he received the frantic nodding, until Credence choked down his cries enough to hear him. 

“Do you trust me?”

Another set of nodding, this one far less sure. 

“This will feel good. There’s nothing wrong with this,” stated over and over like a mantra, warring with the “wrong, wrong, _wrong_ ” echoing inside his head, harmonizing with the sound of leather biting into flesh. 

His pants were loosened, and Graves knelt in front of him. 

“What’re you - ?”

“It’s not wrong, Credence.”

Words clumped in his throat, and he absently used a hand to wipe his face free from tears and snot, that wisp of drool that could have been either of theirs. 

A mouth against the fabric of his shorts, against something that only his hand ever ghosted over when relieving himself in the bathroom, and he scrabbled back. 

“Don’t - !”

Graves paused long enough to look up at him, dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. 

“What have I been saying?”

“I - I don’t - “

“ _What_ have I been saying?” Far more stern this time, and he snapped to attention. 

“That this isn’t wrong,” he offered in a broken whisper, earned a blinding smile that contrasted with the darkening eyes. 

“This isn’t wrong,” Graves affirmed, setting back to soaking the cloth and bring what was underneath - 

“I - “ his voice was even more wrecked, lost somewhere between the sobs and the memories and the fear and the pleasure. 

“This isn’t wrong,” he said for himself, sounding almost like he believed it and he wanted to because now the barrier of shorts was gone and it was flesh against flesh, and nothing, _nothing_ , had even felt half this incredible. 

Graves hummed in satisfaction when he heard the sentiment, and it sent another wave of euphoria through him, had his knees trembling and his fingers burying into the wall with the effort to remain still. 

Eyes shut and head rapidly joining his fingers in the wall, he was surprised by the sudden loss of heat, more surprised still by the sudden attack on his own mouth. 

When he finally pulled back, Graves’ eyes were little but black and his lips sickeningly moistened. 

“Say it for me.”

“This isn’t wrong.”

“Again.”

“This isn’t wrong,” Credence’s voice was strong for the first time that night, stronger, perhaps, than it had ever been. 

“Good. Your mother was wrong about this?” His tone was just as firm as it had been, but his expression lost some of its previous lines. 

Credence couldn’t answer that, felt the welts in his back rip open again at just the idea of defying her. 

But, luckily, he wasn’t expecting an answer. 

“If she was wrong about this, maybe she was wrong about other things too. Help me, Credence. Help me and I’ll help you learn to harness the magic flowing inside you. Help me and, together, we can accomplish so much.” 

Credence swallowed, studied his face and felt his own tongue die in his mouth and spread its death throughout the rest of his body. Unable to speak, he swallowed again. 

A hand reached down between them and he bit back a groan - had been silent the whole ordeal because, if there was one thing he knew innately, it was how to never make a sound. 

“Credence. I can make you feel good, better than good, but I need to know you’re on my side,” Graves whispered hotly against his ear and, blinded by the idea of continuing this, he nodded hurriedly. 

He couldn’t have stopped himself even if his mother had been watching. 

“Good. You and me, Credence. It’s going to be you and me from now on.”

And when the mouth returned, all Credence could think that getting beaten might be worth even these few minutes of pleasure.


End file.
